Spring Showers
Calm and balmy the afternoon settles on its haunches,
only a few tulips leaning on a vase’s edge tremble.
Above a window, clouds’ chorus singing rain smell
of earth not damp yet, perfectly hardened by the sun.
Thirty years ago, we were together holding guitar’s
colored ribbons, tying them around our hearts,
I wanted you to know my country, as I know yours,
now, it’s too late, ruined by broken parts flying away,
still my heart dances everywhere, here with you in LA,
in Spain with my sisters, in Aix-en-Provence’s lavender fields,
a colored ping pong ball, small, playfully bouncing
with delight in my mind’s Mediterranean nourishing light.
The unstoppable night coaxed the rain to deliver its melody
of drops gladdening not only frogs but bees, and pollen.
Today,
Identical drops sprinkle sky, sea, the light-colored night,
while an iridescent moon searches for herself in broken puddles.
Previously Published in Spectrum, Special Edition
Ten Poets to Watch in 2018
Spring by the Shore
Crystal from ancient Roman vases fills the air,
on my hands, a glass of jasmine tea already cooled
reflects the edge of waves
rolling over golden silica.
Small children take their clothes off
before drawing with a weathered stick
names on the sand inscribing them for eternity.
The breeze carries scents of iodine and fried calamary,
the sky, a Virgin Mary’s blue mantle invites
the mind to distill cosmic dreams.
There’s a reason why Easter beckons
to rejoice kissing, rope jumping, kite flying,
expand our lungs with songs of renaissance
while flowers open up infinite doors
hidden
in the heart of the earth.
Spring Water
Water flowing from the creek splatters
trails, pilgrims, the hem of dresses.
The hour, biblical in its light, romantic
in its hues, illuminates roots from saplings
tender as fruit just peeled by a young
hand working on the fields, soft smile
on her lips as she licks running juice
down her chin, and looks straight
at you sitting on the moss-cold stone
mesmerized at the sight of her beauty,
the particular fragrance of this water
so unlike yours down the city.
Every town has its own sweet water,
herb-bitter in taste, transparent in color,
icy to the touch, persistent in its way
of softening rocks, grabbing pebbles,
cleaning the earth until everything
smells green, refreshed, present,
until the tip of your tongue yearns
to touch it again as it flees mountains.
Perhaps, one day you’ll return to the brook,
drink from it, taste the young girl smelling
of orange blossoms and harvested hay,
fill your canteen, then, write about it.
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